My Mother-in-Law Came into OUR Apartment, Slapped Me, and Demanded Money—While My Husband Sat There Silent!
—Did you hear that she called again?—Anastasia’s voice was as steady as a surgeon’s scalpel, although angry sparks flashed in her eyes.—Eight times. Judging by her tone, she paused between calls only long enough to take another sip of valerian.
Sergei sat guiltily on the edge of the sofa, dressed in casual shorts and a T-shirt with a ridiculous dinosaur printed on it. He lowered his eyes.
—Well… she just misses us. You know how she is. Especially after we didn’t take her to the seaside with us…
—“Misses us”?—Anastasia snorted.—Seryozha, we spent forty-three days saving every spare kopek. I worked night shifts, and you took extra jobs so we could go on our first vacation in five years—without taking out a loan, without back spasms, and without constantly worrying that the plumbing would break. And she…
Anastasia shot up from the table so sharply that the old stool creaked as though objecting.
—And how did she respond? She took out a loan for a holiday in Turkey! She actually took out a loan! She’s sixty-two, her pension is barely enough to keep a dead snail alive, but apparently she “doesn’t want to be a burden” and “deserves to live beautifully” so she can show “young people” how a proper vacation is done. Now guess who is supposed to pay for that beautiful life.
Sergei spread his hands and sank farther into the sofa—the classic male gesture of surrender. He hated arguments, especially with women who knew how to repair things.
Anastasia could replace a fluoroplastic sealing ring in an industrial pump, and the previous year she had changed the toilet in their rented apartment all by herself. Even the plumber had asked for her phone number afterward.
—She didn’t exactly ask us directly…—he muttered.
—Oh, really?—Anastasia tossed her phone onto the table.—Here. Read her latest message.
Reluctantly, Sergei picked up the phone. The screen displayed:
“Seryozha, my dear son, surely you wouldn’t abandon your mother when she’s in trouble. Tell Nastya that I understand everything. She’s young and ambitious, but I didn’t raise you so that strangers could treat you like you were beneath them. I hope the two of you will figure out how to help.”
—Well…—Sergei scratched the back of his head.—She means that perhaps we could discuss it…
—Discuss it?—Anastasia leaned closer and whispered through narrowed eyes.—Seryozha, I work with cast iron and men who think jokes about women’s breasts are the pinnacle of comedy. Do you honestly think I can’t recognize when someone is trying to dump responsibility on me under the disguise of “family values”?
She sat down again, took a deep breath, and continued in a softer, almost affectionate voice.
—I have nothing against your mother. I was even willing to tolerate her Sunday visits, when she inspected our refrigerator for expired food and lectured us about buying the wrong kind of cottage cheese. But paying for her vacation? Absolutely not. Spare me, Seryozhenka. Spare me—as in never.
Sergei rubbed his face with both hands. The room smelled distinctly of faded deodorant and emotional exhaustion.
—Nastya, I understand you. I really do. But if she has gotten deeply into debt, there will be interest, debt collectors—you know how these things work. Maybe we could give her a little? Just enough to cover part of it. She isn’t asking us to pay the whole amount.
Anastasia froze. Then she slowly rose, walked silently to the cupboard, and pulled out a thick folder containing receipts, contracts, and printed salary statements. She carried it over and slapped it down on the table.
—This, Sergei, is our future. This is the mortgage for the new apartment we were approved for last week. Remember how you nearly cried when you discovered that your salary was finally considered officially declared income and the bank didn’t immediately throw us out?
He nodded, his shoulders hunched.
—This is our first step toward a new life. A life without carpets hanging on the walls and without your mother constantly saying, “Back in 1980, we did everything ourselves.” We are almost at the finish line, Seryozha. If you tell me now that she matters more than our home, I will leave.
He jerked upright.
—Have you lost your mind?
—No, darling. I simply grew up in a family where my grandmother taught me that you wipe your feet on the doormat, not on other people. I refuse to build my life on someone else’s manipulation, even when that person is your mother.
—She… she isn’t really that terrible,—Sergei objected, although there was already uncertainty in his voice.—She just finds it difficult to live alone. Dad died, her friend is in the hospital, and besides, she has always lived for me.
—Wonderful.—Anastasia smiled sarcastically.—Now she can live for the bank. She can also try explaining to the debt collectors that “Seryozha is responsible.”
Silence descended over the room. The only sound was the humming of the old refrigerator, which could not have cared less about family drama.
Sergei stood and walked to the window. The curtains shifted slightly in the draft. Beyond the glass was an ordinary gray spring outside Moscow—no joy, no sunlight, only melting snow dripping miserably between rows of gray buildings.
—She’s coming tomorrow,—he said quietly.
—Wonderful,—Anastasia replied with bitter irony.—I’ll make borscht from empty promises and fry cutlets made from “My son, you’re all I have.”
—Don’t start, Nastya…
—I’m not starting anything. I’m finishing it. Seryozha, you have twenty-four hours. Not to decide for me—for yourself. Decide who you are building your life with. Meanwhile, I’m going to take a bath and see whether we have any hot water or patience left in this apartment.
She walked away, leaving behind the faint scent of mint shampoo and the feeling that a hurricane was approaching.
Sergei remained motionless beside the window. He desperately wanted to disappear—to walk out into the stairwell, go to the store, buy a bottle of mineral water, a bag of chips, and a ticket to Kamchatka.
Unfortunately, the closest equivalent to Kamchatka was his mother-in-law’s apartment in Chertanovo, and that place was even more frightening.
He knew that the real battle would begin tomorrow.
The following day, the apartment smelled of anger and undercooked chicken breast.
Galina Petrovna stood in the middle of the kitchen wearing her favorite blouse covered in pink roses—a fitting symbol of her supposedly “warm” personality. A dusty clutch hung from her shoulder. A packet of medication and a worn notebook labeled “Son, Debts, Prescriptions” protruded from it.
—I knew you would eventually drive me out of my own son’s life!—she roared, waving her hand so dramatically that a piece of bread slipped from her fingers and landed on the floor.—And if you couldn’t do it yourself, your mother would manipulate you into doing it! This is all because you aren’t a proper woman. You’re a piece of metal with the voice of a tank!
Anastasia stood by the sink with wet hands. She slowly dried them on a towel and turned around.
—That is because in my family, Galina Petrovna, unlike in yours, people know how to speak directly instead of begging, manipulating, and staging theatrical scenes. You could give the actresses from My Fair Nanny a run for their money.
Sergei sat between them at the kitchen table, staring at his half-raw meal as though he hoped to fall through it into another dimension.
In that dimension, there would probably be no mother and no angry monologues.
—I went to the bank for your sake!—his mother wailed, flinging her arms into the air.—I did it so you wouldn’t be embarrassed in front of the neighbors! So I could live as well as you do and not look inferior! I managed it on my pension! And what do the two of you do? You stand there like two snakes in a greenhouse—one hissing and the other silent!
—Who exactly are you talking about?—Anastasia crossed her arms and moved closer. Her voice was icy.
—Perhaps I’m talking about myself!—Galina Petrovna snapped. She elbowed Sergei.—Son! How long are you going to sit there silently? Which one of us gave birth to you—me or her?
Sergei licked his lips and attempted to stand, but somehow slid back onto the stool.
—Mom, don’t do this. You came here to talk, so let’s talk calmly. No theatrics.
—Calmly?!—Galina Petrovna nearly choked with outrage.—She said I had to repay the loan MYSELF! You would think I had gone to the Canary Islands instead of Anapa! So what am I now according to your precious system—a beggar?
—No. Now you are simply a debtor,—Anastasia replied.—According to every law of economics. And morality, for that matter.
—Why, you…!—Her mother-in-law raised her hand.—I’ll show you!
Sergei jumped up, but it was already too late.
The slap came quickly, like a scene from a Mexican soap opera. It did not feel like an ordinary blow so much as a declaration:
“Now you have finally seen the real me, little girl.”
Anastasia staggered backward in disbelief.
—Did you just slap me?—she asked slowly, pressing a hand to her cheek.—In my kitchen? In my home?
—This is our home!—Galina Petrovna shrieked.—Because my son lives here! You’re nothing more than an accessory attached to his salary!
Sergei tried to step between them.
—Mom! What are you doing? Can you even hear yourself?
Anastasia pushed him aside and stepped forward, narrowing her eyes.
—Fine. You crossed the line. That means I no longer have to restrain myself either. You want me to pay your debt? All right. Show me the document proving it is a joint loan. Or show me the contract where I signed my name and accepted responsibility for it. You don’t have one? Then get out before I call the police and report you for assault. And don’t forget to take your pride with you. It appears to be as deeply in debt as you are.
—You ungrateful woman!—Galina Petrovna leaned forward, her face twisted into an explosive mixture of resentment, fury, and theatrical hysteria.—I raised your husband alone! I worked three jobs to provide for him! What have you done? You arrived when everything was already prepared and immediately placed a crown on your head! Look at her—she repairs machinery but breaks people as if they were nuts and bolts!
—Mom!—Sergei shouted.—That’s enough! Stop it! STOP!
He threw his fork onto the floor. It bounced with a metallic clang and struck the leg of a chair as though delivering one final protest.
The resulting silence was deafening.
—Right now, I hate both of you! You, Mom, and you, Nastya!—His voice cracked.—All I ever wanted was a quiet life. A wife, an apartment, perhaps a child someday. Instead, the two of you are competing to see who can humiliate the other more effectively!
Anastasia froze as though she had been slapped again.
This time, the blow was not physical.
—Listen to me, Mom,—Sergei said, stepping closer to his mother.—You chose to go on vacation. You chose to take out the loan. You made the decision yourself. Therefore, you will deal with the consequences yourself.
—You…—Galina Petrovna turned pale.—You are speaking to me this way?
—Yes. Because you entered my home and struck my wife. This is the end.
Trembling, she walked slowly toward the door. She grabbed her clutch and raised her chin defiantly.
—Then let her be the one who buries you.
Anastasia could not suppress a faint smile.
—Certainly, provided you manage to outlive us. But I should warn you that I won’t bake pies for the funeral meal. I don’t know how.
The door slammed so violently that the windows vibrated.
Sergei sank heavily onto the sofa as though all the air had been removed from his body.
—I’m not her son anymore,—he whispered.—That’s it. She has disowned me.
Anastasia said nothing. She took some ice from the freezer, wrapped it in a towel, and silently handed it to him.
—This is for you. Put it on your head and cool down. Because, Seryozha, this story is only beginning.
Two weeks passed.
That was enough time for the forgotten chicken breast in the refrigerator to develop a gray coating and for Sergei to accept that none of it had been a dream.
Everything had truly happened: the slap, the slamming door, and the deathly silence from his mother afterward.
Anastasia never mentioned her mother-in-law, as though Galina Petrovna had simply been deleted from the family archive.
But life is like old Soviet plumbing: when you shut off one tap, water inevitably begins pouring from another.
The intercom rang.
The sound was dull and unpleasant, like a direct blow to an exposed nerve. Anastasia looked at the screen and cursed silently. Why did no one ever burn old bridges properly?
—Who is it?—Sergei asked as he approached with a cup of coffee.
—Guess from the first three notes.—Nastya pointed at the screen.—Your beloved younger aunt. The one who lives in Mytishchi and usually remembers you only when “something has happened.”
He took a sip of coffee and burned his mouth. Even then, he barely reacted. It was as if his body had stopped accepting new signals from the department labeled “Relatives.”
—I’ll let her in, but don’t get excited. This will be quick,—Nastya said, pressing the button.
Three minutes later, Nadezhda Lvovna stood in the hallway.
She was a dignified woman wearing a raincoat the color of strong tea. On her face, sorrow appeared to be waiting in line behind anxiety. She smelled of lily of the valley and something sour, as though a disappointed lemon lived inside her handbag.
—Hello, children,—she said in the solemn voice of a pathologist.—Forgive me for coming without calling, but I must… I absolutely must tell you something.
Sergei leaned forward.
Anastasia stepped backward.
The moment hung in the air like electricity before a thunderstorm.
—Galina Petrovna is in the hospital,—Nadezhda Lvovna said quietly, placing her handbag on the floor.—She suffered a hypertensive crisis. The neighbors called an ambulance. You two are listed in her medical records as her emergency contacts.
Anastasia exhaled as though she had just heard a sentence being pronounced.
—What now? Is she manipulating us with a medical crisis too?
—Nastya…—Sergei whispered.
—No, just think about it!—Anastasia suddenly burst out. Her voice trembled, but not from sympathy.—We buy discounted bread and avoid even considering a furniture loan, while your mother travels to Anapa, gives everyone advice, and then suddenly ends up in the hospital. And once again, we are supposed to be responsible?
Nadezhda Lvovna narrowed her eyes.
—Young woman, I understand that you have your grievances, but I did not come here to ask for money or create a scene. I came because she is waiting for you. She is in intensive care. Do you know what she said when she regained consciousness?
Sergei lowered his eyes.
Anastasia became still.
—She said, “Don’t call Seryozha. Let him live however he wants. He has a new mother now.”
The kitchen became as silent as a library before an examination.
The silence was louder than shouting.
—I didn’t…—Sergei began, but his voice broke.—I never wanted it to come to this.
Anastasia approached the window. She looked down at the passing trolleybuses and at a street cleaner sweeping the pavement with a crooked broom.
Against the background of such ordinary life, everything that had happened suddenly became unbearably real.
—You know, Seryozha… When someone betrays you, it hurts. But when the person betraying you is the one who was supposed to protect you, something inside you breaks. I thought I hated your mother. But now… I feel absolutely nothing toward her. Nothing at all. And that is much more frightening.
He approached slowly and placed a hand on her shoulder. His touch was warm but uncertain.
—Shall we go?
—Let’s go.
The hospital greeted them with the smells of disinfectant, boredom, and cotton wool.
The room they entered was dim. A dusty orchid sat on the windowsill. Galina Petrovna lay in the bed, pale and wearing an oxygen mask.
There was no poison left in her eyes.
Only exhaustion and fear.
She looked at her son as if she could not believe he had actually come.
—Why?—she murmured through the oxygen tube.
—Because I am still your son, even though you disowned me,—he replied quietly.
She attempted to smile but only grimaced.
—I suppose… I went too far?
Anastasia stood silently against the wall.
Then she suddenly stepped forward, so quickly that even she seemed surprised by her own decision.
—Galina Petrovna, we are going to have a baby.
The hospital room fell completely still.
Sergei turned toward her as though he were seeing her for the first time.
—What?
—You were always criticizing me because I hadn’t given you grandchildren. Well, now you’re getting one. Our child will know that he had a grandmother. But he will never learn how skilled you are at manipulation. I will do everything possible to make sure he grows up without that.
Galina Petrovna stared at her as if Anastasia had arrived from another continent.
Slowly, she closed her eyes and whispered something.
Perhaps it was “thank you.”
Rain was falling when they left the hospital.
It was gray and clinging, like a feeling that could not be washed away with tears.
Sergei remained silent.
Anastasia opened her umbrella.
—We are adults now, Seryozha. Truly adults. Without our mothers.
He nodded and drew a breath. Then he embraced her—not tightly, but as though he were trying to gather broken pieces and fit them together again.
—I made my choice back then, in the kitchen. I was simply afraid that choosing would mean losing someone. Now I understand that sometimes, in order to preserve what matters, you have to let something else go.
She leaned against him.
—The important thing is not to let go of yourself.
And they walked away beneath a single umbrella, through the rain and into a life where everything had changed.
There was no going back.
